Chapter Thirty-Four: The Night of the Absent Knight

  The faint clinking of silver and gold filled the room as the coins stacked on top of each other. Selriph’s eyes tracked the paltry stacks of coin, his mind flashing back to the embarrassment an hour ago.

  The dwarven woman’s voice played in his mind: “Eh, can’t leave someone like you out there with what’s coming tonight. Fine, ten silver. But only because your oversized dog has been a good boy.”

  I should count myself lucky…

  Selriph counted his remaining funds. A mere seven silver and three copper pieces, and a single gold coin lay before him. At most, that amount would cover a week in an inn—for himself.

  The meagre sum was far from enough to fund Emmett’s temporary lodging if a similar rate was demanded on the rest of their journey.

  Selriph felt a wave of regret at having exhausted his purse on ‘buying’ Nightwind’s former owner’s silence. The additional funds he had scavenged from the woodman’s hut were now all but spent on his two nights here.

  The prospect of taking up Tol’s offer to earn coin enticed the boy; at least he could pass off as a faceless grunt. However, he quickly rejected the notion, due to both wanting to head east and its total lack of practicality.

  From his window, Selriph watched the sun and heard the square’s hum as a cool breeze brought the faint, musty odour of village life. The faint murmur of conversation occasionally carried from unseen mouths, mixing with the whispers from the old wood beneath his feet. He overheard the standard affair—salutations, words of transaction, and the scuff of feet on loose dirt.

  Beneath it all, however, was an undercurrent of tension, a thread of speculation driven by the distinct lack of fanfare that should have accompanied Holy Knight Aedan’s arrival.

  Selriph pushed the thought aside. The knight would surely arrive by nightfall. Maybe the forest spirits were causing a distraction, or highwaymen had waylaid them. Selriph’s mind even entertained the notion that the mountain pass guards were giving the Knight trouble; an image of a generic man in Holy Knight garb gesturing in confusion and protest at the suspicious gaze from the guards stationed in the pass played through his mind.

  Selriph brushed his forehead as if clearing the image with a wave of his hand, then moved his gaze to the open tome beside him, its page displaying various cantrips and first-circle terramancy spells. His brow furrowed as he scanned the page.

  Moulding earth… rock shot…. earth mounds… dust cloud….

  Selriph’s expression darkened as he flipped through the pages before landing on the section for hydromancy. He closed the book with a sigh, the title almost a silent reply to his futile perusal.

  The Tome of Arcane Foundations.

  I guess it was a little much to expect Varnel’s book to offer more than the basics…

  Selriph then glanced at his patchwork map, at the two circular scribbles with various annotations. The first—the mountain pass—with the words: disguise self? Hide Emmett? Pose as a hunter? Scribbled just above the crude pointed symbols meant to depict mountains.

  To the right lay the second circle, representing the old mines, a detail he’d extracted from his breakfast conversation with Tol. Beside it, a lone note questioned: “Find a way through...?”

  The adolescent youth knew that with the mines collapsed in, the only way he’d be able to make his way through was with his terramancy. His mind conjured the image of Vick holding out his ivory wand in front of him, clearing the way through the crystal and ore-adorned walls around him.

  But that was a mere fantasy—one that might have been reality if Selriph had stood his ground in the ratways—perhaps. He recognised it for what it was: the regretful musing of a boy with no good option forward.

  Selriph’s hand moved of its own accord, tracing circles around the old mines on his map, the lines growing darker with each pass.

  No choice, just gotta give it a shot. Worst case… I’ll have to rethink this, maybe even head north and go via the sea…

  His gaze drifted to the upper portion of his map, eliciting the mental image of the Worfil city docks and a guard staring suspiciously at him, a ship in the background, his horse and wolf at his side.

  A snicker escaped Selriph’s lips.

  That would never work…

  In a meditative state, Selriph stared at the two brown orbs of arcane energy nestled in his palms. They were little more than the barest expression of terramancy. A faint hum of magic—unnoticeable.

  Despite the low output, the terramantic energies catalysed the mental practice he was engaged in; visualisation of the magic required for his audacious attempt to clear a path through the old mines in just a few days.

  His mind flashed with the image of pillars pressing against the walls, the buckling of stone passageways widening, held purely by terramantic energy—enough for him and his two animal companions to squeeze through. The glow of the orbs in his hands intensified with the vividness of the image in his mind’s eye.

  The image rang in his mind the outward pressing “veil” of energy that would hold back the walls, almost like a water mage holding back the very tides, or parting a river—if such a feat were even possible.

  As Selriph let the hum of energy recede, the distinct murmur of activity of the village came into his attention, holding back the flood of interrogative and self-doubting thoughts re-entering his awareness.

  Then came a series of rapid, insistent knocks that echoed from the door to his right.

  Who is that? Could it be the Knight—how much time had passed?

  Selriph clenched his fist as the arcane orbs sputtered out—then, his senses reached out.

  A familiar signature, that of the young assistant downstairs.

  Selriph sighed, relieved that the holy knight hadn’t come to greet him in person due to his minuscule arcane experiments. He pushed himself to his feet.

  The innkeeper girl’s annoyance was plain, evident in the urgent, emphatic knocking; likely a result of their prior night’s awkward encounters and his earlier demand that she bring his dinner to his room.

  The youth didn’t have a choice; he had already taken a risk venturing out to find Tol and the stable hand in the morning. He wanted to avoid being seen today, particularly when the Holy Knight strutted into town, however delayed they were.

  As Selriph paced over to a door, Calli’s voice rang through the wood, a mix of annoyance, reprimand, and urgency.

  “Wake up in there; it’s important.”

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  A meal can’t be that important…

  Selriph grabbed the key that hung by the door and twisted it in the lock. There, Calli’s figure greeted him, adorned in a snow-white kirtle with an apron over her garments, the expectant tray of food absent.

  Selriph’s right brow pressed down in confusion, driven both by the lack of his meal and the serious look plastered on Calli’s face.

  “Head down, the elder’s gonna explain what to do tonight…” Her voice trailed off, clearly uneasy.

  Unease crept up Selriph’s spine; he didn’t want to be seen, especially if the knight was somewhere downstairs. “Why? Caddock told me last night, curtains drawn, no? Why—”

  Calli’s irritated tone cut his voice off. “Just head down.” She said, pacing down the corridor, her footsteps heavy and urgent, a sign of her unease.

  Selriph stared in silence as the girl’s maroon hair disappeared beyond the stairs, the sound of urgent murmurs grumbling from below.

  This cannot be good…

  The scene that greeted Selriph at the stair landing was nothing like the one he had seen last night. The tavern, packed to the brim with patrons—or what looked like a significant portion of the village—chatted in whispered murmurs.

  “That should be everyone,” Calli called out, pointing to the village square.

  The flock of patrons slowly shuffled their way out of the tavern, joining the gathering crowd in the square, although a contingent remained inside, listening to the commotion from the square from within its warm confines.

  He heard a voice, aged yet strong, ringing from the square, a woman’s voice tinged with urgency and command, but not imposing.

  “Gantok and Thoba have already checked east, no sign of his return. We have to assume he isn’t coming.” A woman’s voice rang out.

  A murmur of speculation rang throughout the crowd before they settled down, brought about by the polite raising of the village elder’s hand.

  “If the gods are kind, he might return before the Black Moon. But we have to prepare; he might not come. Place your offerings, no lights, board up your doors, keep them closed. Do not open for anyone. Do not leave once the sun sets.”

  “Remember,” she said, her voice serious, her neck craning forward, “if you hear the voices of those who came before...” A pause filled the gap between her words.

  “Do. Not. Reply.”

  A wave of silence and nods rippled through the crowd.

  Then the elder returned upright, her voice more casual, communal. “Most of you already know this, but there are some among us who don’t. Be calm. Spirits won’t mess with ya unless you give them a reason to.”

  “If there is nothing else, let’s give a prayer for our protection, and may the light ever protect us.”

  The scene around Selriph fell into a coordinated tableau of heads dropping, hands bundled in prayer. Selriph hastily moved to mimic their gesture, as everyone around him silently prayed.

  “That is all; make your preparation, light be with us.” The simultaneous shuffle of humanoid bodies met her as she moved in a single, sweeping motion.

  Selriph flicked in surprise at the brevity; he had expected something akin to a sermon. His eyes darted to the surrounding scene, unanswered queries guiding his gaze, tracking the figures of Caddock and Eilan.

  Amidst the dissipating crowd, Selriph spotted the bearded form of Caddock, leaning down, deep in conversation with his son.

  As the youth closed the distance, he could make out the words of assurance that escaped the man.

  “Remember what Aedan would want you to do: just stay calm.”

  “But he is supposed to be here. He promised. The young boy tightly gripped the worn leather book close to his chest for reassurance.

  “I am sure he will bring some cookies from Solvelis as an apology, be a good boy, and let’s—” Caddock paused as he noticed Selriph coming up to him.

  Selriph had scarcely intended to interrupt the conversation, his voice polite, tinged with a touch of awkwardness.

  “Apologies, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to know what was going on.”

  “Sel!” The boy’s unexpected enthusiasm surprised Selriph. “Uncle Tol and Miss Calli said you were in your room, you didn’t want to be disturbed. I thought they were lying to me, like how Aedan did.” The young boy’s voice was tinged with sadness.

  “Eilan, the lad probably had his business. Remember, Aedan tarried before; the roads aren’t always smooth.” The man’s voice was low, a blend of calm assurance and gentle fatherly placation.

  “Roads shouldn’t break promises,” the boy pouted in protest, head down.

  “Apologies for this. What is it you wanted to ask?” His head tilted in curiosity at Selriph.

  “Nothing much; I got half of my answers in the last few sentences. Will we be safe? Just stay in and wait for the night to pass…?” His voice was laced with inquiry.

  “Should be.” Caddock’s voice was rigid, likely in an attempt to portray confidence in front of his son. “Spirits will wander around come midnight, usually not a bother. If they are, Aedan helps to deal with it.”

  As long as they are not a bother. Right. But just to be safe…

  “If you don’t mind my asking… did Aedan ever mention what these spirits were? A name for them or something?” Selriph’s voice was polite, yet light with inquiry.

  The answer did not come from Caddock, but from his son, his book now open to a worn page.

  “Darkmoon Wraiths. That’s what he called them.” The boy pointed to a sketch of a ghastly black spiritual creature, its cloaked and tattered form trailed by what looked like a miasma.

  The collective, faint cacophony of nails being hammered into wood throughout the town slowly gave way to a coordinated silence as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

  Selriph stared at a fresh piece of parchment—kindly provided by the innkeeper, Brynjar—barely legible by the faint light coming from his hand, which he planned to extinguish soon.

  Unlike the map, the notes were pristine and detailed, like a scribe, a stark contrast to his annotation on the map that lay next to it. The notes described his recollections of Darkmoon Wraiths, along with what he could glean from Eilan and his book.

  Seems simple enough. The wraiths will feed on the spiritual offerings placed throughout town, and then we just wait for the eclipse to pass.

  Selriph calmed at the surmountable nature of the issue—a rarity given recent events—further reinforced by the village’s measured reaction, despite their local hero’s absence.

  As long as the living souls in the village caused no stir, they would be fine.

  Selriph noticed the only possible snag, although he was he wasn’t entirely certain: his magical signature. It could act as a beacon, attracting the wraiths, far more tempting than the offerings scattered about by the village elder.

  The youth closed his eyes and once more felt the cold veil of his suppressed aura. He felt fairly sure that his magical signature would not cause trouble.

  After all, between the amulet and suppress aura, as long as Selriph did not cast any magic, he was as mundane as the villagers who made this palace their home.

  Selriph flicked his wrist as the blue arcane light dissipated, leaving the boy in near pitch blackness, with only the faint starlight filtering through the window.

  Selriph lay in the bed, his silent breath accompanied by the measured moves of his sternum, a light meditative state dulling the passage of time.

  Even with his eyes closed, he felt it — the shift in magical energy around him. The Eclipse was upon them, the cold like a veil of ice around him, no doubt caused by the celestial events above.

  Around him, the dead quiet was an assurance rather than unnerving. A sign that the village was prepared and composed.

  For minutes, perhaps hours, but likely somewhere in between. Nothing happened; he could hear the faint hum of supernatural activity from beyond the boarded windows — like the Darkmoon wraiths and the blend of other activity brought about by the eclipse.

  However, through the noise, he heard it.

  Scratch, scratch.

  At first, he’d thought it was just a rogue creature, perhaps a stray animal that had stumbled into town. Did Emmett maybe get spooked and wander into the waiting night wraiths?

  But the scratching kept going. It sounded like brittle bone on wood—an indescribable sound.

  It started as something hardly noticeable.

  Slowly it grew, the minutes passed, and the scratching grew in intensity, no, number.

  Selriph’s heart raced as he gripped the pendant that hung around his neck, seeking its assurance.

  Shite…? Is it me? But I thought my magical aura…

  His hearing became amplified in his quiet panic. The sounds like a dagger scraping across slate in his ears.

  Selriph’s brief surge of dread dulled as he realised the scratching wasn’t originating from the inn below, but somewhere beyond. Probably on the other side of the town.

  It did not detract from the intensity as it continued to grow.

  What in Vireon’s light is going on out there?

  Selriph, against all common sense, rose from his bed, in a crouch, footsteps silent as a cat as he paced over to the boarded window.

  He peered through. He’d almost expected a wraith to be waiting, given how the world had been treating him lately.

  What he saw was far from the sardonic horror he’d expected, but it was no less unsettling.

  Through the crack, peering down to the ground floor below, he could just about make out a mass of black, draped-cloaked figures at the door of a wood-thatched hut across from the village square.

  They seemed agitated, or rather, seemed to be drawn or enticed by something inside.

  Selriph’s eyes widened in recognition as the image of a father and son trudged off just hours before poured through his memory.

  The house that Caddock and Eilan called their home.